After Everything
by RainbowSquee
Summary: A canon-era oneshot that follows the events after 5x13. The battle is won, but Arthur is gone, and Percival must be the one to deliver the news back to Camelot. After so much loss, none remain unchanged. SPOILERS FOR 5X13, lots of angst, implied slash depending on how you look at things.


**I have alot of feels about how Merlin ended, so I had to write a fic. Sorry.**

**SPOILERS FOR 5x13 - IF YOU'RE STILL HURTING, I APOLOGISE, BUT SO AM I.**

**This follows the events after Kilgharrah departed - Percival was tracking them, and it wasn't long before he found them. It was his duty to carry the news back to Camelot, whatever it may be.**

**Enjoy, and review~**

* * *

Percival found their horses a couple of leagues back. He holds no hope in his heart any more, just a lust for revenge.

It seems he was beaten to it.

Percival kneels down beside the fallen body, an odd feeling settling over his stomach. Anger, yes. Satisfaction, of course. He wipes a strand of hair from her pale face, trying to quell the bile that rises to his throat as he thinks of the terror this beauty is. Correction: the terror that she once was. Her blood soaks languidly in the ground around her and her death is so swifter than Gwaine's, he can't help but laugh. The world is unjust. By now he should know that. He can't help thinking of Gwaine's face, as still as hers is now, slack and pale and talking of failure. Regret – that's the feeling he can't put his finger on. Regret that it wasn't his hand that thrust the blade through her flesh and separated her life from her body.

Arthur's blade, it seems, was swifter. Percival thrusts his blade in too, and she still bleeds.

He can't bear to touch her, this monster, but there is no way that he can leave her either. She is magic – it wouldn't surprise him if she found some way of coming back again. They will burn the body tomorrow, just to make sure.

_Gwaine. You didn't fail. You never fail._

He rides with her tethered to the back of the saddle. He can't bear to touch her, the murderer.

The others can't be far away.

* * *

Merlin can feel nothing. Nothing at all. At some point he did – earlier on in this eternity, there was heartbreak and screaming and tearing at skin – but not now. Occasionally the fear and the guilt and the remorse clog up his chest and he forgets how to breathe, but he always remembers.

Arthur lies beside him, where he has lain for what seems like forever.

Merlin wishes he wouldn't remember.

* * *

There is only one figure that Percival can make out. He's not sure it even is a figure, it's so still. His journey has taken too long – there was never any chance that they would have been able to cover this distance in time, not on foot.

Still the figure does not move.

Arthur is sprawled on the grassy bank, arm stretched towards the water and unmistakeably dead. His face looks so peaceful and unlike Gwaine's that Percival just wants to cry, but he doesn't, not this time.

Merlin has his back to him, staring out across the water at the island they never made it to.

"Merlin?" Percival's voice is tentative, yet too loud. Still Merlin doesn't move.

Percival lays a hand on the man's shoulder. "Merlin?"

And then the boy turns.

There are no tears there, not any more. His eyes are red and hollow and so completely _done_ with this world that Percival tightens his grip a little bit more, just to make sure.

He doesn't say anything about Arthur. He doesn't need to.

Merlin just stares through him.

"You can't stay here." Percival's voice is hoarse and it pains him to say it, but it must be said. "Both of you."

The response is less than a whisper. "I can't leave him."

And Percival understands. He feels it too, down in his gut, the despair that Merlin is feeling now. "You don't have to."

But neither of them believes the lie. Of course Merlin must leave him. Arthur has gone where no living man can follow, the selfish prat.

Merlin just smiles – or at least, what he remembers a smile to be like – and resumes his vigil beside the lake.

Percival doesn't have the heart to move him, so he joins him. They sit there in silence, the both of them and Arthur. One dead, one wishing for death, and one for whom death has become a close friend.

* * *

"Merlin, Gwaine is –"

Merlin holds up his hand.

"Don't," he says shakily, "Just don't."

* * *

"I have magic." Merlin says sometime in the silence that seems to stretch out in all directions. "I have magic and yet Arthur is dead."

There is no emotion in the revelation. He simply doesn't care anymore. Death, shock, betrayal – none of it matters. His very existence doesn't matter. He is a servant with no one to serve, a knight with no one to pledge allegiance to. He spent so long living for Arthur, he has forgotten how to live for himself.

Percival takes this information with a quiet calm.

"I am the most powerful sorcerer in this land," Merlin continues, his voice hollow, "Yet Arthur is dead."

The water grumbles at their feet.

"What is the point, if I cannot save the one person who means the most?"

Percival watches him silently, pity in his eyes. He knows this crushing guilt, knows it well when it creeps up on him at the dead of night when the world is asleep. The kind of guilt that will not listen to reason.

Merlin's epiphany is frightening to hear.

"Even _with_ magic, I might as well die."

* * *

"Did Gwaine know?"

Merlin pauses. He inhales slowly.

"I never told him."

It is in that moment that Merlin realises that everyone he loves is dead, or will soon die. He realises that the world is not a just place, and destiny does not play fair. He realises that he has murdered a great deal of people, but Morgana has murdered a great deal more. He realises that he was always meant to play this role, and he will always be alone.

And it hurts.

There is silence again. They both remember a time, before all of this, when they would steal food from the kitchen and hide Arthur's sword in the space behind the wood in the stables. When things were good and Lancelot was alive and there was peace in the land.

But Merlin remembers before that, when Morgana was still innocent and whole and a good person. When he would get thrown in the stocks, and Gwen would giggle and wipe the tomatoes off his face. When destiny was straightforward.

"I think he knew." Percival's arms are around his shoulders and Merlin lets him, because it is nice to feel the embrace of something not shrouded with the coldness of death. "I think he knew."

* * *

"Forgive me," Merlin whispers. He's not sure to whom he is apologising.

Percival echoes the phrase, his thoughts far away. "Forgive us all."

* * *

Percival arrives at the castle four days after he had left.

He has lost one living companion and gained two dead ones. A man in brown rides behind him, curled in on himself. Merlin wishes it were him slung over the saddle instead of the man he holds in his arms.

Gwen's hand clutches at her heart. She felt him die, her husband. It was unexplainable – a feeling, rather than a certainty, but she _knows_ he has gone. The tears won't stop falling. Knowing doesn't make it any easier.

She knew it was too good to last. It's_ always_ too good to last.

* * *

Percival throws Morgana's body to the ground with unconscious venom. The knights around him are faceless now, one and the same and too close.

"Get her out of sight," he spits. For she has broken everything, and everyone. Made them just as broken and shattered as she is. Was.

An image of Merlin wishing for death flashes into his mind and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop the growl.

But then it's Gwaine that he's lifting off the horse and his knees sag as he cradles the head gingerly to his chest. The man is cold – there will be no smile on that face any more.

His knee gives out.

Hands are on his shoulders, lifting him upwards. He stares into the face of Leon, whose pain mirrors his own.

They are the last two left.

"Take him to Gaius," Leon murmurs to no one in particular, "Rest."

Percival is reluctant to let him go, but there is no fight left any more.

* * *

Gaius hurries down the steps much faster than he has in years. It is Arthur's body that is handed to him, pale and cold, yet the sob that threatens to erupt from his chest is not just for this one man. It is for everything that Arthur never did, everything that Merlin had strived to protect, for destiny and her cruel heart.

He has had years of practice at supressing his anguish at the dead.

"What of Merlin?"

Leon answers slowly, as if his tongue is weighted. "He did come back." The words should sound promising, but they offer little comfort. "He did."

Coming back and coming home are two entirely different things.

* * *

Gaius is summoned to the council chambers.

He looks at the two bowls of stew set on the table. He wonders whether one of them will ever be eaten.

* * *

"Just tell me."

The time for tears is over. Gwen has to be strong now, for the kingdom. For Arthur. Only the closest knights are assembled. They are considerably smaller in number.

Everyone in that room is grieving.

"We went to try and stop Morgana." Percival looks at the floor as he kneels in front of the throne, not at his queen. "She tortured Gwaine to death."

He can still hear the screams.

"I found Morgana's body in the woods near to Avalon. She had been run through." He finally looks her in the eyes, full of sorrow. "They were too late."

She bites down on her fingers hard.

"Merlin … tried his best," Percival says slowly, the image of that broken man playing on his mind, "He really, _really _did."

Of course he had. He always does.

"Who slayed Morgana?" Gwen asks briskly, trying to regain her composure, "We must thank them."

The question doesn't need to be asked, not really. Gwen knows the answer already. But, after everything, Merlin deserves, at least, this small amount of recognition.

"It was Merlin," Percival murmurs, a small smile on his face, "Isn't it always?

* * *

It isn't until Gwen has told everyone to leave that she asks the question that needs to be asked.

Gaius doesn't want to hear. He retires early.

Merlin still hasn't come home.

* * *

Gwen visits Gaius that night.

He sits at one side of the table, head bowed. On the other side, a bowl of stew.

"He's late," she jokes weakly, trying not to let her voice shake. Gaius just looks at her, long and slow, with eyes that have seen far too much.

"Yes. Yes, he is."

She sits beside him, just like she did when she was young, her head resting on his shoulder.

"It's quiet without him. Without them both." And all of a sudden she's crying again, big heaving sobs. Gaius pats her back, soothing, but it is half-hearted – he is grappling with a grief of his own. She wipes a hand over her eyes, trying to smile. "When will he return?"

"I don't think – " The old man falters in his words, his voice trembling, " – I don't think he will return, my lady. Not really."

"What do you mean?"

Gaius draws in a long, painful breath. "To him, there were only ever two options – come back with Arthur alive, or not at all."

_You always knew me best Gaius._

And Gaius does. Gaius knows that Merlin blames himself for Arthur's death, knows that Merlin is tearing himself apart on the banks of Avalon. If there was anything he could do to bring the boy home, then he would do it, but there _is_ _nothing_.

Arthur had been Merlin's reason for living.

Gaius curses destiny for choosing to make Merlin the one it breaks.

"I don't think he can bear to be the one that survived."

* * *

They stay like that for most of the night, swapping stories about Merlin's heroism and Arthur's childhood.

The memories are bittersweet, but both have lost and both are hurting and both need someone's comfort.

* * *

"Merlin feels alone." Gwen's revelation is surprisingly insightful. "He thinks there is nothing left for him here."

"He has always felt alone," Gaius says simply. He thinks of that reckless boy who wandered into his chambers all those years ago, with that open heart and carefree magic. Who hadn't yet been tainted by bloodshed and destiny and heartbreak. He thinks of the last time he saw Merlin, full of a despair and anguish that did not belong in the eyes of one so young.

Lancelot's death was when it truly began. Mordred was the match. Arthur's death was the inferno.

Merlin was the fatality.

Gwen looks up at him, her eyes glistening. "But he's not. We're still here."

* * *

The funeral date is set for three days' time. It will be a traditional, a small affair on the banks of Avalon.

Merlin returns to his chambers on the second night. Gaius wakes to the sound of a man crying his heart out – long, painful sobs punctuated by deathly silences.

_Arthur. _

_Arthur, I'm sorry. _

_Arthur, I'm so sorry._

Gaius stares at the ceiling until the sobs die down into whimpers, the whimpers to breathy murmurs.

_Arthur, this is all my fault._

It is then that Gaius starts to move, because that is the one thought he cannot let Merlin go on believing.

There is no sound as Gaius pushes open the door, and no body on the bed. In fact, he can't see Merlin anywhere.

"It wasn't your fault, Merlin."

Perhaps it is partly a lie, but every truth is made up of a lie somewhere along the way. Either way, he gets no reply. Gaius curses the darkness of the room, and his failing eyesight.

He walks to the window, not really believing it for a second but checking just in case. It is open, but not wide enough to launch anything substantial out of. Gaius lets out a sigh of relief he hadn't realised he had been holding.

There is a small gasp from somewhere behind his elbow, then silence resumes.

Merlin has somehow wedged himself in the tiny space between the wardrobe and the bedpost, limbs folded inwards. The old man kneels down, his knees creaking, and takes his ward's face in his hands. "It wasn't your fault."

Merlin doesn't say a word. He doesn't know what to believe any more.

* * *

Gwen asks Merlin to be the one to send Arthur's body into the lake. She is the only one who loved Arthur as much as he did, so he obliges.

It's not like he hasn't had the practice.

* * *

Merlin never returns after the funeral. It isn't surprising, really – the corridors are empty without Arthur, and he _just can't_ serve anyone else.

Gwen is left alone, but she manages. Leon is fiercely protective, and Percival comes to terms with his own grief enough to be good company. Gaius remains the constant, wise as always, but slightly smaller now that his ward has gone. Diminished in the face of all that heartache.

He gets letters from Merlin sometimes, when the man remembers to write. The Great Dragon passed on, he finds out, a number of days ago. The creature remained cryptic until the end, the annoying brute. Merlin is in the Holy Lands, fighting the darkness that is rising in the east and trying to find Aithusa. Merlin thinks that if he tries hard enough, he can give her a new start. He still makes the pilgrimage to Avalon whenever the loneliness threatens to swallow him up.

Merlin is still protector of Camelot, just from afar.

Gaius receives a letter from Hunith, thanking him for looking after her baby, keeping him safe in the age of darkness. He cries, because he couldn't keep him whole, and Merlin is far stronger than he ever was.

It is then that he asks for permission to visit her, after all these years. It is probably the last journey he will ever make, and he begs her forgiveness for not being able to keep Merlin away from the evilness of this world. She just smiles and strokes his hair. "Merlin was always destined for things beyond our control – the world is not kind, Gaius. He did not need protecting, he just needed to be shown the good that there is."

Hunith cannot regret sending her child to Camelot. He found what he was looking for. She just regrets that he lost it.

* * *

Gaius passes away the next summer, peacefully in his sleep. He was old, and had seen too much.

Merlin returns shortly after, a changed man. Older, wiser, more reserved. He has discovered the true extent of his powers whilst he has been away, and knows now what they do to a being.

"My Queen," he says, on one knee, "I would like to serve you and your kingdom, if you would have me."

Hands are around his shoulders, lifting him upwards. Gwen has changed too, in a similar way: they both carry scars, but they both live now. She is a devoted and just queen, so alike Arthur in ruling that the people are just as loyal to her as they were him – perhaps more, because they understand her heartache.

"Your magic is welcome here," she smiles, "As are you." And then she hugs him, and they are not queen and warlock, but Gwen and Merlin, servant to Morgana and frequent resident of the stocks. "I've missed you," she whispers, and she truly has, more than she can say.

Merlin bows his head, the old guilt resurfacing. He hasn't felt it in a while. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Gwen takes his hands in hers, and stares into his eyes. This is something that has been playing on her mind ever since she realised the truth about their protector, and she needs him to understand. "Your magic saved Arthur so many times, Merlin. You helped him build this kingdom, helped me understand the man I will love until my dying day. You did it without seeking credit or recognition, and you did it out of love."

Merlin resumes his place as protector of Camelot.

For a while, at least, everything is alright.


End file.
